


Steam

by hawkayy



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Cooking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 10:42:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8976436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkayy/pseuds/hawkayy
Summary: Napoleon realizes that he may have fallen in love with Illya. Cooking may or may not have aided the process.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scriptserpent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scriptserpent/gifts).



> Believe it or not, I did intend to write a humor/fluff/light angst fic with adorable threeway friendships, but unfortunately this fic did not turn out to be that. I do apologize, but here's to hoping you enjoy it anyway!

i.

 

“You are enjoying this a little too much,” Napoleon hears the accusing snarl through his earpiece.

“Peril, this may very well be the last time I get to order you around. Waverly thinks I’m dying. Allow a man to satisfy his last wish, won’t you?”

“Shut up and tell me which door.”

“It should be…” he trails his fingers across the blueprints. “Second door on the hall to the right.”

He traces the paper to the sound of Illya’s footfalls, noting where he slows to turn and where he comes to a stop. Illya disappears briefly behind a column, and Napoleon shifts his binoculars to the next window, where Illya’s frame will reappear once he enters the room.

“I am turning you off," Napoleon hears before a shuffle of what he assumes is Illya taking out his earpiece and lodging it in his breast pocket.

“Glad you’ve realized,” he says to no one in particular. Gaby gives him a weird look that he dismisses with a grin which he makes sure doesn’t reach the cheeks.

There’s more shuffling, then the sound of the door being knocked.

“ _M_ _onsieur?_ ” Napoleon can imagine Illya’s face: probing eyes, shrugged shoulders, and the charming, bashful grin Napoleon never would have thought in a million years that Illya had in him.

There’s a brief exchange, and Illya is let into the room. Napoleon peers intently through the open blinds, waiting for Illya to step into view.

“You are bigger than the usual boys,” Napoleon hears the French-accented voice remark. “Your accent...Russian?”

 _“Oui, monsieur.”_ The voice isn’t Illya’s and Napoleon knows it, but it doesn’t help that it’s lower and throatier and Napoleon doesn’t know if he’s angry at Waverly for putting him on medical leave for a _concussion_ or if he’s irritated that Illya has taken his place, especially in a mission of this nature.

“Fine. Fine indeed. Would you like a drink?”

“It would be good, _monsieur_.” _Lies_ , Napoleon wants to point out, _you hate being offered drinks._

“What’s your name?”

“Sergey,” the name rolls off Illya’s tongue so smoothly that Napoleon can almost sees him, young and budding and meek but so confidently so. He remembers their first mission together. Wasn’t that the name he had used then? _Sergey_.

“Well, Sergey, show me what you can do.”

 

-

 

When it finally stills, Napoleon unclasps the earpiece from the loop of his ear and sets the radio on the bed.

He hears the clinking of the utensils from the tables of the restaurants downstairs, and he can almost smell _foie gras_ from his position at the balcony. His fingers itch, and he’s not sure if he needs to take care of something in the shower first, or in the kitchen.

“Solo,” Gaby calls after him, but he doesn’t turn back. The information is retrieved, Illya is safe, and Napoleon supposes that is all that matters. Illya can find his own way back.

He ignores the throbbing he feels in his crotch and finds his way to the basket of ingredients he had picked out at the market this morning. He takes out a zucchini, brushes the dirt off and sticks it under the tap while turning on the faucet.

Cold water seeps into the cracks between his hands and the vegetable, and he thinks the shudder he reacts with clears his head a little.

Napoleon turns the tap off, draws out a knife, and chops the ends of the zucchini straight off.

He supposes the routine settles him a bit; it always have. He pinches the salt into the saute pan before dropping in the diced tomato, and then inhales the smell of hot oil.

“Where were you?” He hears the door open then close before an accusing voice nears the kitchen. “You were supposed to guide me out as well. What were you doing?”

Napoleon turns the gas off, picking up the pan from its handle and setting it on a mat on the table. Illya looks dishevelled, and Napoleon feels his heart speed up again.

“What is this?”

“Ratatouille. Eat.” Napoleon wipes his hands on a dishcloth, then walks away.

  

ii.

 

They’re in Poland for a recon mission, and Napoleon goes to a bar on the last night. He orders a whiskey, downs three fingers, and pats his collar flat before approaching the girl two stools away.

Her name is Nadia, and her legs wrap around Napoleon’s torso in all the fitting angles. Her breath hits Napoleon as he rides into her, _once, twice,_ and she moans and screams and breathes her climax. She’s everything Napoleon likes - she curves her hips to each thrust, and fakes her orgasm so well that Napoleon could have bought it if he’d just turned his head the right way.

Napoleon closes his eyes from the moment her lips closed around his cock and opened his eyes just to catch her fastening her bra, the metal hooks clasping to each other and sliding into place. Her body is too small, her moans too sharp, too shallow, and too distractingly _not_ Illya, and Napoleon closes his eyes because it’s easier to imagine: Illya’s rough skin beneath his, Illya’s soft blond hair under the grips of his fingertips, Illya’s bulk lodging between them as Napoleon pushes deeper and deeper, their torsos touching, Illya’s broad frame spread out under him and-

He stands in the shower after he sends her out the door, and fucks his fist with everything leftover. _Fuck_ , he thinks as he feels the water beat down on his back; _fuck_ , he thinks as he pounds the base of his palm; _fuck_ , he thinks as he comes to the thought of Illya’s _tight-as-fuck asshole_.

Napoleon thinks back as he wipes himself off with a clean towel - There are some things that he enjoyed, with Nadia. Polish accents are, after all, not too far from Russian ones, and it’s not too far a reach to hear Illya’s voice moaning his name instead, _Solo_ with the rounded ‘o’ but a rougher, hushed edge at his throat.

Napoleon feels a shudder at another thought - what if Illya calls him _Cowboy_?

He feels a rush that shoots right to the tip of his cock, then an anxious sense of dread crawls up his throat, and Napoleon know he’s in deep.

 

-

 

“I thought I smelled borscht.”

He looks smaller in his nightwear, Napoleon thinks, standing in the shadow like he’s hiding in it rather than lurking.

“I was experimenting.” Napoleon shrugs as he scoops in a generous heap of sour cream. He’s out of dill, so he garnishes with the leftover caraway seeds instead.

“Experimenting.” Illya peers dubiously into the kitchen. “With borscht and - blini?”

Napoleon masks his anticipation by pursing his lips in a smug expression. He sets the bowl down on the table mat in front of Illya’s seat, and the spoon clatters with the side of the bowl.

“I tried to make stroganoff, but I’m not particularly familiar with Polish mushrooms,” he explains as he watches Illya stir apart the sour cream. Illya hums, and picks up the spoon.

Napoleon resists the urge to turn away. He hadn’t tried the soup before serving it - he’s not sure if he had expected Illya to show up at the kitchen. Napoleon had cooked borscht a few times before, but never for a Russian and never for anyone that matters, and he grips the hem of his apron as he waits for the verdict.

“Well?” He finally asks.

“Hmm.” Illya swallows before shoving another spoonful in his mouth. “Not bad,” he says between another scoop. “Can have more dill weed.”

 _I ran out_ , Napoleon is about to explain to him, but stops in realization that it’s a good reason to stay in the kitchen.

So Napoleon smiles and unties his apron, taking a seat across from Illya. He studies him, traces his expression: green eyes, dark brows, a permanent scowl. He thinks about Illya as a kid, sitting in the same hunched over position at the same corner of a small dining table, and Napoleon resists a sudden urge to hold him.

He watches Illya scrape his bowl clean before finally looking up, glancing at Napoleon with a pointed look.

“I am ready for blini.”

 

-

 

“It’s sad, Solo,” Gaby says as she sits down at the kitchen counter the next morning.

“Sorry?”

“You, making Russian food, then telling Illya that you’re just ‘experimenting'?"

Napoleon scoffs and shakes his head, then turns around to turn off the stove.

 

iii.

 

The car ride back is as loud as car rides after failed missions get.

Gaby juggles between steering the wheel and murmuring soft instructions to Illya, who sits in the back seat nursing his wound, and may or may not be listening to Gaby’s explicit bandaging instructions. It’s a flesh wound, but Illya still hisses whenever the car jerks to sudden stops or sharp turns. The body sits dismantled in the trunk, thudding against the hood every time Gaby slams on the breaks.

It’s usually not him who compromises missions. Gaby, although smarter than the two of them combined, makes amateur mistakes; Illya, although the one with the most professional training, is both too keen to establish his superiority and a ticking time bomb that explodes at the most unfortunate times, all rendering Napoleon the most intact agent of the three, at least when it comes to missions.

But he messes up, this time. It was supposed to be a simple asset retrieval: they were assigned to retrieve a turned asset at his safehouse; Waverly explicitly gave instructions: do. not. kill, but the asset turns out to be unhinged, armed, and delirious, so it technically wasn’t _all_ Napoleon’s fault that the asset was shot dead.

“Waverly? Alexander Waverly sent you, didn’t he? He never wanted me to leave UNCLE alive - why did _he_ care?” the asset had roared, waving his pistol in the air in front of him. They had followed through the routine - _calm down, lower the weapon and we won’t shoot you_ , Napoleon and Gaby searching the drawers of his desk for sensitive intel, Illya towering over him, looking as amicable as Illya can muster, but still threatening enough to, well, threaten.

“Put your weapon down,” Illya said while nearing him with Illya’s own weapon. Napoleon held from rolling his eyes as he dumped out filing cabinets full of documents - they were _spies_ , goddamnit, not janitor boys cleaning out someone’s trash.

“Fuck off,” the asset slurred, unhitching the safety of his gun. Napoleon was surprised that the old scientist even knew how to use a gun; he looked as if he’d spent his entire life behind textbooks. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and he bore his teeth manically. “Those fucking sons of whores, Blackmailing you with their schemes.”

“Put it down now.” Illya enunciated every consonant from the back of his throat, a low threat, a final warning.

“You don't believe me, do you? You’re being played by their games. Remember this when they fuck you over - just like this!”

It happened in an instant. _Like this!_ he shook his gun and fired a shot that ricocheted off the floorboard by Illya’s foot loudly. Illya leaped for the gun as he quickly cocked it a second time and fired a second shot that hit somewhere bluntly, and Napoleon drew his own gun out just as he watched Illya’s left shoulder jolt back, the first drip of blood beginning to form around his jacket sleeve.

There was no thought, no hesitation, nothing. Napoleon felt the jerks of his own gun as he pressed down on the trigger, twice in a row. The asset fell to the floor, _thud_ , then dead weight, the insides of his skull splattered against the yellowing wallpaper.

Gaby rushed to check on Illya’s arm, but Napoleon stood, still, wondering if the shots were indeed from his gun.

 

-

 

“I didn’t expect it from you,” Gaby says as they enter their own safe house. She tosses the car keys on the shelf next to the coat rack before following Illya into the bathroom. Napoleon wonders how she manages the tone: bitter and disappointed but enough to sound like an offhand comment.

“You’re calling Waverly,” she calls coldly from the hall.

Thing is, he didn’t expect it from himself, either. He had replayed the moment over and over during the car ride back - Illya was in a position to reach over to stop the third shot: they had let their guard down previously, but to reload a revolver a third time would have been impossible, even without Illya’s superhuman reflexes. And, even if somehow Illya couldn’t get to the gun in time, Napoleon could have shot him anywhere else to incapacitate - arm, shoulder, any muscle supporting the gripping of the gun. Hell, even his chest would have been better than _the dead center of his head_.

All this time, Napoleon thought he could remain impartial and detached and loyal to his last name, but he allowed a partnership to compromise his effectivity.

The anger at himself rises. He tries to remember the last time he had muddled his clear-headed logic with his goddamned penis that _didn’t go awry_ , and he can’t. He only thinks of the time with the prostitute, back in New York, the time that fucked him over and sent the armed, uniformed task force assholes straight to his apartment at 3am, the suited CIA _sonofabitch_ slamming his head on his bedpost and jeering into his eardrums.

He dials London’s number with shaky fingers, and bites his lips as he waits for the first ring, reciting _what went wrong, what went wrong_ like a mantra. He presses his palm against the cold rungs of the dialer.

It was an instinct, and Napoleon doesn’t know when “I want to fuck my partner” became “I’m helplessly in love with my partner.”

He thinks about Illya, and remembers how Illya hasn’t said a word to him since. Not “I could have handled him myself”, or “You did not have to shoot his _brain out_ ”, not a thing. Of course he knows. He may act cold and composed and indifferent, but Napoleon knows his front better than anyone.

Napoleon feels like he’s spiraling, and his hands are trembling when he sets the receiver down. There’s a distinct waft of hors d'oeuvres in the air leftover from the memory of the realization first in the floaty streets of Saint-Germain; he’s half sure he’s hallucinating, and there’s only one way to find out.

 

-

 

The kettle whistles shrilly, a scream that resonates off all the wrong edges of the kitchen counters. The lid of the saucepan rattles in a cacophony with the hissing puffs of the boiling water seeping down the sides of the pot, shrivelling into vapour and causing bursts of red flames on the gas stove. Napoleon shuffles in the drawer for the pasta spoon but the dividers are a mess, and he’s cursing at himself as he reaches for a soup ladle instead, reaching into the pot containing the overcooked pasta.

“Cowboy.” Illya’s voice is buried behind the still-ever-so-persistent screeching of the kettle, and Napoleon shuts it out because it’s the last thing he needs on his mind. _He_ is the last thing Napoleon needs on his mind, right now.

“Just - take a seat. Give me a minute.”

“Solo -”

“The sauce is cooked, I’m waiting for the asparagus to finish steaming, the vinaigrette is in the refrigerator which, I know, unprofessional, but seeing as I only had so long to -”

“Solo!” Illya says loudly.

Napoleon looks up from the steam. Illya is standing by the door frame with one arm in a sling, and Napoleon feels like he’s back in the cramped hotel room in Poland, watching Illya take his first sip of Napoleon’s borscht. Illya’s shoulders are hunched slightly, and the only indicator Illya gives of his concern is the way his eyebrows are raised and his eyes greener than Napoleon remembers ever seeing, a color almost resembling the lake next to the cafe where they spent the first minutes of their partnership expressing how _unimpressed_ they both were.

The pot hisses loudly in the background as water boils over, and Napoleon turns the stove off, knob by knob.

He doesn’t remember ever being so in love with someone. There is something in Illya’s eyes that is so innocent and so human, and Napoleon thinks about how he destroys hotel rooms when his superior calls, how he can pull off the smoothest honeypot but can’t hide the trembling of his fingers when provoked, how he snaps at Napoleon’s fashion advice but follows it anyway, and the pureness when he says “I am ready for blini” and Napoleon thinks, maybe, after all the stealing and cheating and betraying and blackmailing that maybe, for once, he deserves to fall for someone who insists that using cutlery for hors d'oeuvres is the civilized manner to eat.

“I think - with you, I-” He stops, because he knows it’s futile, and closes the strides between them by leaning up to Illya’s lips with his own.

Napoleon pulls back after a beat, and he’s suddenly all too aware of the smell of roast quail and the sharp tinge of mussels and he looks up again because what if, what if he-

Illya pulls him in by the back of his neck, and he’s too surprised with the cold of Illya’s palm to lean in immediately. They hold for the longest second, and Napoleon only has time to breathe in the light tanginess of the gravy and the scent of Illya’s that he has longed for for too long before Illya’s green eyes flutter shut again, and in that second, he feels like everything he has ever ached for is his.


End file.
